


Doing It Wrong

by Thea_Bromine



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Spanked Spike Ficathon, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does a vampire with no reflection do that? Answer: he gets a Watcher to help.</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/331911.html#comments"><i>Spanked Spike Ficathon</i></a></p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/125573331@N03/16692692305"></a><br/>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing It Wrong

The silence put him on notice immediately that something out of the ordinary was going on: Spike was never, _never_ silent. Unfortunately.

The smell told him what it was. He knew it from Buffy, although naturally he would never say so to her; if she thought him ignorant of it, well, that did no harm. Still, in Spike’s case it might be possible to fashion a weapon from it, and there was no denying that against Spike, he needed all the weapons he could find. It wouldn’t be much of a weapon, no more than a snide comment or two, but he wandered towards the bathroom, already turning over choice phrases.

He would never, he thought, become used to that. Spike was leaning over the hand-basin, solidly, unarguably _there_. The eye travelled automatically up his legs and across his back, and then flicked to the mirror, expecting to see his reflected face. Every time, it came as a shock to Giles that the reflection was his own, standing in the doorway, and not the sharp cheekbones and bright eyes a foot from the glass. It felt like a disconnection, like reality doing it wrong; his gaze returned hastily to Spike himself, and he absorbed the detail and made a sound of censure.

“For pity’s sake, use the bloody gloves!”

Spike glanced dismissively at the plastic gloves on the floor by the debris of packaging. “Don’t need ‘em. Don’t like ‘em, can’t feel what I’m doing.”

“What you’re doing,” Giles rebuked him, “is killing off your own skin. You won’t feel what you’re doing if you do that either. I know you heal quickly but that’s just stupid.”

“It’s also not your business, Watcher,” Spike spat back.

“My bathroom,” pointed out Giles evenly. “My towels that you’re... oh, _bloody_ hell, Spike, _not_ that one! You know perfectly well that the demon slime towels are in the cupboard under the stairs! God knows, I’ve got little enough left to myself that those bloody children haven’t claimed or ruined or misappropriated – I’m not having _you_ spoiling the little that’s left!”

Spike twisted slowly to peer over his shoulder. “Watcher, you’ve got apocalypses an’ demons an’ unnatural disasters lining up to compete for your attention, an’ you’re whining about which _towel_ I use?”  

“I – yes! Yes, I am! Those were expensive! They’re not for mopping up bloodstains or wiping off demon snot and they sure as hell aren’t for some vain little bloodsucker to...” he broke off, making a desperate gesture of irritation.

Spike shrugged, a slow ripple of movement, not just of shoulders but somehow involving his flexible spine and most of his insolent body, and reached for...

“Holy _fuck_!”

He snatched at the little bowl, but Spike was quicker, shifting it to his other hand and digging three fingers in the contents, dragging out a palmful and applying it, with a sneer for Giles.

“That’s...!”

“It’s a sugar bowl, Watcher, that’s all.”

 “It’s not ‘all’, you little vermin,” he spat back. “It’s the sole remaining piece of my grandmother’s Coalport, and it’s _not_ to be...” Words failed him and he turned half away, conscious of Spike’s beady gaze. The smirk, when he looked back, was more than he could bear: he took three steps towards the vampire, slammed a hand on the back of his neck, and lifted the little bowl out of his grip. “The end cupboard is half full of plastic takeaway containers, _as you know perfectly well_. I wouldn’t have begrudged you any number of them. You are _not_ having my grandmother’s Coalport, and the only reason you would have taken it is for spite.” He tipped the contents into the sink, over Spike’s snarled objections, and rinsed the bowl one-handed, shaking out the last drops of water as he released Spike’s neck, and setting the bowl delicately on a shelf.

“You look ridiculous,” he added spitefully. “Although not half as ridiculous as you’re going to look later. You’re doing it wrong, you’ve missed a bit.”

And didn’t _that_ hit a spot. “I haven’t! I have not! You’re just tryin’ to wind me up!”

“You’re going to look like a badger. It’s your own damn fault too, it’s a bloody stupid thing for a creature with no reflection to be doing.” He considered, and a malicious smile crossed his face. “You don’t usually do it on your own, do you? You’ve had help before – Drusilla, I suppose, although God knows she’s so far past barking that I’m amazed even you would trust her with it, and Harmony, and... did _Angel_ help?”

Spike looked away, into the depths of the basin as if searching for something there. “No he fuckin’ didn’t. He didn’t care what I...”

“What you looked like? No, I, I don’t suppose he did. He wouldn’t have noticed if you were striped like a zebra, would he?”

“No,” said Spike flatly. “He wouldn’t.” He grabbed at the towel – the good towel – and wiped his face and neck; Giles made a noise of sheer rage, and slammed his hand down hard twice on the vampire’s arse, eliciting two sharp yelps, more of surprise than pain, before snatching the towel away, throwing it into the bath and turning the cold tap on as far as it would go.

“Oy!”

“ _Not_ bleach on my good towels, Spike.” Giles stamped out and returned armed with a handful of faded towels, one of which he threw at Spike. “And... hell, you’ve dripped on the bloody _floor_ , too! You little...”

It was simply too much. All the petty irritations – the noise, the lack of privacy, the running commentary on his life, the constant insults, the _mess_ – rose in his throat, and he actually _growled_ with fury and frustration. Spike, twisting to look at him, and opening his mouth, obviously intended another snide remark, and Giles suddenly _didn’t care_. It was disturbingly easy to grab Spike around the back of his waist, trapping the vampire’s right arm against Giles’ body, and his left against his own. Spike struggled, but with his arms pinned down and his head still lowered towards the basin, he couldn’t quite recover his balance, and even demonic strength didn’t seem to serve in the absence of a secure footing. Giles’ palm cracked on Spike’s arse, once, twice, three times, and Spike swore viciously, kicked out, connecting with Giles’ ankle, and dropped like a stone as the chip fired.

Giles, taken by surprise, nearly fell with him, recovering with a lurch and dragging Spike back upright, supporting him as he staggered, and easing his grip as soon as Spike seemed able to control his own legs. They stood for an uncomfortable moment, a little too close to one another, Giles’ chest heaving and Spike unnaturally still, until a calculating look crept over the vampire’s face, and with slow deliberation he flicked his head sideways at the floor.

Giles blinked once, and with equal deliberation leaned to the side of the tub, and lifted the bath brush. There was an exchange of glances, and of comprehension, and Spike lowered his eyes, and said, perfectly politely, “I believe I’ve spilt something on yer floor, Watcher.”

“I believe you have. Wipe it up, please. After that, finish rinsing that towel, and wring it out. I’ll put it in the machine later. Then finish what you were doing. And after _that_...” and his voice fell away threateningly.

Spike, with cautious slowness, wiped the small grey splodge from the floor, turned off the bath tap, and twisted the towel, folding it and tucking it up at the head of the tub, out of the way. Then he turned back towards the basin.

“That would be easier to do over the bath,” observed Giles, impassively. Spike shot him a beseeching look.

“Have I really missed a bit?”

Giles made him wait, just a beat – and then sniggered and shook his head.

“Bastard,” observed Spike, without heat. “Give us a hand, Watcher. You were right about that – ‘s bloody difficult to do meself, wi’ no reflection. Hard to get it all out.”

“It’ll cost you,” warned Giles; Spike smirked, and leaned over the bath.

“You can have the gloves if ya want, since your skin’s so delicate.”

“Not as delicate as yours is going to be,” growled Giles darkly, disentangling the gloves from the abandoned packaging on the floor, and snapping the first one on his wrist. “Lean over.”

“Don’tcha mean ‘bend over’?”

He got a slap for that. “Not yet. Is that too hot?” Giles’ mouth twisted in black amusement at his own enquiry. Who would have thought of an active Watcher taking such care of a chipped vampire?

“’S nice.” And indeed it did seem to be: Spike was all but purring like a cat as Giles ran his fingers through the wet hair, working the grey smudges out into the bath.

“That’s it then.”

Spike twisted and gave him a contemptuous look. “Conditioner, Watcher. An’ lots of it.”

“Big jessie,” muttered Giles, looking round and finding a bottle which certainly wasn’t one of his.

“Just careful, all right? An’ you should be more careful too. You could have nice hair if you took a bit of care of it.”

Giles snorted, but his lips twitched when Spike made a little contented sound as the slick cream was worked through his hair. The idea lodged itself in his mind: if the vampire was this responsive to something as simple as having his hair washed, how would he react to more intimate touches? Because that – Giles faced it plainly – was where this was going. The degree of wrongness this carried for a Watcher was extreme, but there it was. He shifted the shower head, adjudged the runoff clear of bleach and conditioner, and turned off the taps, picking up one of the blood-and-slime-approved towels and dropping it on the back of Spike’s head.

He took the good towel to the washing machine while Spike dried his hair, and came back to find the vampire working gel through the still slightly damp curls, twisting and pulling to get the effect he wanted. He gave Giles a glare. “Yeah, difficult because I can’t see what I’m doin’. An’ no point askin’ you if it looks O.K., is there?”

“Absolutely none,” agreed Giles evenly, and dodged hastily back as Spike, not very convincingly, attempted to wipe the last of the gel off his hands via Giles’ tweed. “ _Don’t_ do that, Spike.”

“Oooh, is it _naughty_ , Watcher? You gonna smack my bum for it?”

“Very naughty, and yes.”

Spike let his eyes go wide. “Not with that nasty hard bath brush?” he whimpered, unconvincingly.

Giles, who was known to be able to recognise a hint when somebody hit him hard enough with it, picked up the brush, and hefted it threateningly. “Oh, I think so. Bend over. Hands on the bath.”

That graceful ripple again: Spike, he thought, had a spine like a snake.

And an arse like a peach, impudently tipped upward as if begging for whatever Giles felt inclined to dish out.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, trying to tamp down the surprise in his voice.

“Yeah,” agreed Spike, ambiguously.

The back of the brush cracked across the tight denim; Spike squeaked, a high pitched yelp which obviously caught him by surprise. Giles laughed. “You’ve got complacent, Spike. You’ve got so used to demon strength that you’ve forgotten about normal human strength. I’ve got long levers, and I work out with a Slayer. I’m stronger than you thought. And a long – handled – brush,” this with three hard impacts of brush-head to seat, “only increases the length of the lever. Do you need me to explain the mechanics of that?”

“I think I got it,” agreed Spike, through gritted teeth.

“I, I’m so glad. In that case, let’s, let’s progress to lesson two, which is How To Be A Polite Guest In Someone Else’s House.” He whacked the brush down again; Spike hissed, and wriggled. “We do _not_ , Spike, we do _not_ ,” punctuating his words with regular smacks, “abuse our host’s goodwill by leaving mugs half full of blood on every surface. We do _not_ drip bleach on our host’s bath towels. We do _not_ entertain the children with obscene rugby songs.”

“Why not? They’ll all old enough to know the words – ow!”

“Because they _don’t_ know the words, Spike. They don’t understand the British innuendo because the slang is different, but they know there’s _something_ they’re not getting, so they come and ask me.”

Spike sniggered, and yelped again as Giles put some effort into swinging the brush. “You don’t want to explain the facts of life to Harris?”

“I don’t want to explain _Diamond Lily_ to Willow. I, I managed to sidetrack her with an explanation of the odder place names in London, but she won’t fall for that again. I don’t want to explain the one about the sphinx. I _particularly_ don’t want to explain the one about the springbok and the sheep. Get those jeans down, I don’t think I’m making enough of an impression on you.”

He stepped back to give Spike room, not even pretending that he wasn’t staring. “Back over.” He got another impudent wriggle for that, and dealt with it as it deserved, slowing only when Spike began to shift sideways rather than forward and back, suggesting that he genuinely was beginning to flinch from the blows. “Now, are you going to behave?”

He got a smirk over Spike’s shoulder for that. “What do you think, Watcher?”

“I think you never have before, but hope springs eternal and all that.” He ran his hand lightly over the scarlet curve, and Spike did his snake impression again; Giles traced lightly down his cleft and Spike widened his stance and hollowed his back.

“Is, is this what you want?”

“An’ a bit of the other.”

Well, that was plain enough. Giles cast a glance at his bathroom cabinet and mentally ran over the contents.

“I’ve got nothing suitable down here.” He swallowed. His bedroom had been most decidedly out of bounds to Spike; inviting him upstairs seemed edgily intimate.

“Don’t matter – you can’t catch anything from me, you can’t give me anything. ‘S not like I can get up the duff. You don’t need a rubber.”

Giles tipped his head. He had never thought of... well, he had never actually thought about having sex with a vampire at all, and he had done his level best not to think about Buffy doing it. The whole thing with Angel basically came down to one event, and there had been no point in asking her afterward if she had researched whether or not she could get pregnant. He rather thought that he didn’t want to know the answer, either to whether or not she could get pregnant, _or_ to whether or not she had thought about it ahead of time. The idea of Giles himself having sex with a vampire...

Spike wiggled his arse. “Come on, Watcher, I know you know how – or has it been too long? Do I need to draw you a picture?”

He slapped the upturned backside again. “Even at my advanced age I still remember the procedure. It starts with lube, remember? And there, there isn’t any down here.”

“Nah, don’t bother. ‘S long as I bleed a bit you’ll be fine, an’ I heal quick.”

It took him a moment to process this. “What? _Fuck_ , no! What do you take me for?”

He got a blank look for that. “’S all right,” Spike reassured him, like somebody speaking to a rather stupid child. “I’ve done it before. You won’t hurt me much an’...” he wrinkled his nose, as if admitting to something rather shameful, and rattled out, “an’ I trust you to do somethin’ for me afterwards.”

“What?” The whole situation had got away from Giles now; he had no idea what Spike was talking about, except that he didn’t think he liked it. Spike straightened, wearily, and turned.

“Aw, fer... Look, Watcher, do you want to get off or not? Because I do. We both know it’s gotta be this way round, because it’ll fry me brains to do it the other way. You want me to spell it out? Yeah, O.K., I got it, you want to fuck me, and I’m agreeable, on account you’re way too _honourable_ ,” which came with a sneer, “to leave me with blue balls afterwards.”

“I should bloody hope I am,” agreed Giles, who had always prided himself on being a considerate lover.

“Well, then, what are you waitin’ for? I told you, I heal quick.”

“I have never,” pronounced Giles coldly, “ _never_ made a man bleed. I’m not starting now. I can’t imagine why you think I would be interested in hurting you.”

Spike’s eyebrows rose and he looked pointedly at the bath brush; Giles snarled. “That’s not at all the same thing and you know it!” Except that from Spike’s blank expression... it _was_ the same thing. Giles began to have a hollow, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach – and he began to use his head, and his large store of knowledge. “Spike... All right, you’ve done this before. What about William?”

Spike snarled in his turn, not a vamp snarl but a frustrated man, yanking his jeans back up and fastening them with shaking hands. “Fuck off, Watcher, you’ve right spoiled the mood, ain’t you? William doesn’t come into this. An’ neither do you now. You’re worse than bloody Peaches – at least he would get to the fuckin’ _point_ , even if I couldn’t walk afterwards!”

Giles drew back as if stung. “Yes, well, I am not Angel,” he observed sharply. “Nor am I Angelus. I have no interest in leaving you unable to walk.”

Spike shrugged. “He’s my grand-sire. He’s entitled.” He tried to push past Giles, who put a hand out to stop him, only to have it knocked away; a moment later he could hear Spike in the kitchen and the ping of the microwave. More blood-stained cups on the coffee table, he supposed wearily, as he tidied the last of the towels away. He continued to think, to make connections. Then he went out to confront Spike again.

“Tell me about your grand-sire,” he suggested, knocking Spike’s boots off the table top automatically as he passed.

“Fuck off, Watcher.”

Honey and vinegar. He circled the couch, hesitated for a moment, and faced the risk, cupping one hand firmly around Spike’s head and running the fingers of the other into his hair.

“Tell me about Angelus.” The gelled curls were still damp; he started to separate them, twisting each one around his fingers and following when Spike pulled away.

“Watcher, I’m warning you...”

He found the curve of an ear and traced it; Spike shuddered.

“Tell me about Peaches.”

“What d’ya want to know?” The capitulation was sulky; Giles smiled and sat down, tugging Spike sideways towards his lap and continuing to work at his hair.

“He’s ‘entitled’?”

“He’s my grand-sire. He can fuck me if he wants.” It was flat, and Giles thought about it.

“Because he’s directly your grand-sire, or because he’s higher up the food chain than you are?”

Spike twisted and Giles held him still, conscious that if Spike really wanted to get away, Watcher strength wouldn’t hold him.

“Both. But he’s my grand-sire so I don’t get to fight.”

Giles considered this again. “Any senior vampire can try, but for Angelus, you _have_ to submit.”

“Yeah. Or _his_ sire or grand-sire.”

“The direct line has rights. I, I see. But you’ll fight another senior vampire?” He was actually enjoying this as little as Spike, who was plainly mortified.

“Yeah. But I’d likely lose. ‘S an instinct, to give in to an older vampire.”

“Mm. Conquest by rape. You bleed, you heal easily, you come to no real harm. Tell me about William.”

Spike struggled and Giles let him go. “Fuck _off_ , Watcher!”

“Spike, was William gay?”

From the hearthrug, Spike glowered at him. “No. Wasn’t _legal_ , remember? William liked _girls_ , wasn’t some fuckin’ _deviant_.”

“William never had sex with a man.”

Spike barked with unamused laughter. “Watcher, William barely had sex with a _woman_. Paid for it once or twice, but nice girls didn’t do that unless you put a ring on their finger first.” He leered. “Made up for that after I got turned.”

“I’m sure you did,” agreed Giles in a murmur. “So why now, Spike? Why were you coming on to me? If you’re fundamentally – yes, bad choice of words, I know – fundamentally straight, why would you want to bed a Watcher?”

That ripple of muscle again; Spike shrugging was a wonder to behold. “Know you swing both ways, can smell it on you. ‘M not straight now; no vampire is. An’ I said, didn’t I? Knew you were too much of a white hat to leave me hangin’.”

“So you expect the sex to be – excuse me, I want to be certain I understand this – fairly brutish and painful, but, but that’s the price you have to pay in order for me to get you off afterwards.”

“Well... yeah. Gotta be that way round because the chip’ll stop me fuckin’ you. Or any other human.”

Giles shuddered. “Spike, do you have _any_ sexual experience with a male that isn’t rape?”

He looked shocked. “’S not rape. ‘S just... just the way a vampire is. I take some of them, some of them take me.” He looked shifty for a moment. “I’ve never actually... never done it with a live one.”

“I’m honoured,” murmured Giles. “Your first warm body.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Watcher. You went and...”

“Spoiled the mood, I know, you said. Come upstairs, Spike, and I’ll see what I can do to retrieve the situation.”

Spike looked away. “Don’t feel like it now.” There was the faintest hint of sulky question in his tone, as if he wasn’t altogether certain that he would get away with it.

Giles shrugged. “Please yourself. The deal is what the deal was: you let me do what I want – shall we say for half an hour? And then I’ll get you off, any way you like.” _If I haven’t done so already,_ he added inside his head. “The only difference is that blood during sex turns me off, so there won’t be any. The same goes for, for genuine lasting pain. But of course it’s your choice.” He headed for the stairs, refusing to look back: if he knew _anything_ about Spike, he knew that if Spike thought it mattered to Giles, he would do the other thing.

Upstairs he kicked his shoes off, picked up a book and lay down, trying to pretend that he wasn’t listening for Spike’s tread on the stairs. He had managed half a dozen pages – well, the same two pages three times – when he heard it.

“You serious, Watcher? Half an hour an’ no...”

“No blood,” he said, keeping his eyes on his book. “No pain. I’ll even go so far as to say that if you dislike what I do, I’ll stop doing it.” When the silence became awkward, he looked up; Spike was staring at him, his brow furrowed. “Spike, I don’t know enough about vampire anatomy to be certain, but I don’t see why that bit should differ from human. Your body was human once, it’s just the impulses and the damage control and repair that are different. And in a human – as you should be well aware – if it hurts, you’re not doing it right. If you’re expecting to be hurt...”

“You think Peaches was _doin’ it wrong?_ ”

“Did you enjoy what he did?”

Spike wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes he’d... afterwards, he was O.K. about... he didn’t care if I...”

“Did you, _while he was doing it_ , enjoy what _he_ did to _you_?”

“Not a lot.”

“Then he was doing it wrong.”

He wasn’t sure that Spike was aware that he had come closer. He went on: “You, you seem to be under the impression that buggery – let’s have the plain word with no bark on it, shall we? – that buggery is only pleasurable to the one on top. I’m telling you that you’re mistaken.”

“Big words, Watcher. You gonna back them up?”

“Giles. Or Rupert. Not ‘Watcher’. If you put your boots on my bed I shall spank you again. Take them off.”

He had never seen the vampire so much at a loss before: the boots came off easily enough, but then Spike froze, giving Giles a rabbit-in-the-headlights look, and flinching when Giles reached for him.

“It’ll be easier with fewer clothes,” he pointed out calmly, tugging on Spike’s waistband to bring him close.

Spike blinked, as if bringing him back into focus, and peeled his shirt over his head; Giles eyed him slowly up and down and...

“You’re blushing!”

“’M not!”

Giles tugged again. “Oh, you are. I’d like to know how it’s done, given that you have no circulation. Come on, take these off as well. I’ve already seen what’s underneath, no need to go coy on me now.”

But it seemed that Spike _was_ coy – Giles had to undress him himself, not that it was a hardship, and draw him down onto the bed, pushing and pulling to land him in the middle.

“Watch the clock, if you want. Half an hour, and if you’re not enjoying it, you can stop me.”

And he set to work.

The vampire seemed oddly reluctant to kiss, and Giles, feeling the unwillingness, didn’t insist; it took him a moment to realise that Spike probably didn’t view kissing as inconsequential. Kissing, for him, presumably represented the transfer of a victim’s own blood back from the vampire who was turning him, and was therefore to do with siring, not necessarily with sex. Still, Spike knew that humans kissed, so Giles, ignoring his lips, started touching his own mouth to the sharp cheekbones and jaw, and the pale throat. It felt odd; Spike was a degree or two cooler than he was himself, and Giles kept finding himself expecting the flesh under his tongue to warm. Equally odd was licking and kissing Spike’s throat and not feeling the slow throb of a pulse – but his neck seemed to be _extremely_ sensitive. Necks, supposed Giles, amused, _would_ be important to a vampire, and he nibbled down Spike’s, and bit him quite hard on the shoulder, getting a startled growl. The slope of his collarbone had to be licked, and apparently that was interesting, before he reached the pallid chest. He knelt up to explore that; Spike smirked at him, folding his arms behind his head and watching while Giles licked, bit and tugged at the tight pink nipples. Giles’ mouth on his belly, though, brought the hands down again, hovering uneasily: Giles sat up, narrowed his eyes – and tickled him.

The convulsion almost tipped him off the bed and the squawk half deafened him; he laughed aloud. “What’s it worth to have me _not_ tell Xander that you’re ticklish?”

“Fuck off, Watcher!”

He laughed again, clawed his hands threateningly, and went for Spike’s waist, and when he was beaten off there, for the backs of his knees.

He hadn't known that a vampire _could_ giggle, except with a nasty going-to-hurt-you-really-rather-a-lot edge.

“Watcher!”

“Rupert.”

Spike kicked him, not hard. “Watcher.”

Giles shook his head and tickled him again. “Rupert.”

“Nobody calls you that,” observed Spike, interested, handing him off.

“Not since... No. Not here.” He tapped Spike’s thigh. “Turn over.”

The vampire did, sinuously, and looked back over his shoulder. “Not since...?”

Giles was silent, his hand unmoving on Spike’s back. “There were only two people here who did,” he said eventually. “Well, only two I really... Occasionally somebody at the school would, or Buffy’s mother did sometimes. Not often. Only two who... One of them is dead. The other might as well be.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, not from Spike. He looked at his own hand against the pale skin, unable to break out of the ring of memory.

“Rupert?”

His gaze tracked up to Spike’s face; if the vampire said _anything_ about Jenny, _anything_...

“Clock’s tickin’. I’d hate to feel I’d missed anythin’ because you ran out of time.”

He huffed, and landed a slap on the still rosy backside. “Cheeky bugger.”

“Nah, you said the bugger would be you. I’m not convinced yet. You want to get on that?”

He leaned over to the bedside drawer and searched for the bottle of slick. “I’ll be right with you.”

Although first of all, he wanted to give some attention to that apparently infinitely flexible spine. He tickled it, nape to tail, just to see Spike squirm; then he ran his tongue down it, tasting every bump and hollow, while his hands mapped the smooth shoulders and narrow waist.

“You have a nice arse, you know.”

“’S been mentioned before, yeah.” There was a flickering glance. “Not in bad shape yourself, are you?”

He snorted. “I’m middle-aged. I know what I look like. Everything’s nearer the floor than it was twenty years ago, my hair’s grey, and my waistline’s going. It’s all right, I’m not that vain.”

Spike rolled, frowning. “Nah, didn’t think you were. But, you know, you look...” He struggled for words for a moment. “S’pose you look what you are: you look like a fighter. A grown man. I mean, Harris is pretty, but I don’t fancy him. Don’t like him, an’ he doesn’t like me, but even without that, he’s a kid. You’re the real thing. A hard man.” There was a smirk with that last, and Giles took it as it was intended, with a smile and another slap.

“Hey, thought you said you weren’t goin’ to hurt me?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going for ‘not unless you deserve it’. Which you do, and I bet _that’s_ been mentioned before, too, hasn’t it?”

“Once or twice,” admitted Spike; “why d’you think I set you up for it downstairs?”

“How much of your irritating behaviour over the last fortnight has been aimed at getting you _precisely_ where you currently are?”

“Takin’ the Fifth.”

The slap this time was hard enough to get a squeak and a laugh. “You don’t get to take the Fifth, you bloody Englishman! I’ll let you have ‘you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say...’” He flipped the top of the little bottle.

“Will be taken down and may be used in evidence against me. Hey! That’s cold!”

“How would you know?”

“I – s’nice though.”

“Told you it would be.” Giles kept his movements slow and rhythmical, working the slick against the tight muscle. He could feel Spike pushing a little against him – well, it wasn’t as if the vampire had never _done_ this before, even if he had never done it quite this way – and he allowed his finger to slip inside. One finger, knuckle deep, working the slick a little deeper and a little deeper. Another squeeze of lube and the finger pushed further and Spike made a small contented sound. Time for more slick and a second finger, Giles thought. Bleed a bit and heal easily, indeed. He thought _not_.

The second finger elicited another happy sound from Spike, who had his eyes shut and his face half turned into Giles’ pillow, Giles smiled to himself – and began to explore gently. Spike had _been_ human, even if he wasn’t any longer; there was no reason why this shouldn’t be pleasurable for him _provided_ the early preparation work was done.

He found what he was looking for.

“ _Fuuuuuuck_ , Watcher!”

Spike was half up onto his knees, a look of profound shock on his face.

“Come on, you must have known it was there. And if, if you’ve done it before, surely _somebody_ has...”

“Yeah, but not like that!”

Giles put on his most innocent expression – as innocent as could be achieved by a man with three fingers up another man’s arse. “I, I believe I told you: if you don’t like it, I won’t do it.”

“Do it again or I’ll bloody bite you! An’ then the chip will go off and I’ll pass out an’ it’ll all be your fault!”

He glanced sideways. “I do believe that’s my thirty minutes up. All right, that’s me done; your choice now.” He twisted his hand slowly, eliciting another squawk, and began to withdraw it; Spike clamped hard on his fingers.

“Watcher – Rupert! I’m soddin’ serious! Do it again!”

He worked his hand free. “I know a better way to do it than that, Spike.” He let the promise sound in his voice, and Spike rolled over, his gaze intense. Giles waited, and Spike nodded abruptly, pulling his legs up with a hand behind each knee.

Giles slapped a thigh gently. “Don’t be in so much of a hurry,” he scolded lightly. “I’d have expected you to have learned patience at your age.”

“Been patient. An’ yeah, O.K., so you’re right, Peaches is crap at this. You’re much better.”

His mouth twisted in dark amusement. “It gladdens my heart to hear you say so. Feel free to tell him too.” He was reaching for the slick, coating himself, teasing Spike again, keeping him loose and ready. When he began to push, there was a moment when Spike frowned, his eyes yellowing, teeth showing, but Giles fought down the panic and waited, hands smoothing and soothing, and Spike’s head dropped back and he sighed.

“’S good.”

“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Giles through his own gritted teeth, dropping his head and running his tongue up Spike’s throat just to see the shudder. Yes, certainly a vampire thing: sensitive neck. He was startled when Spike lifted his head again and offered his mouth, licking at Giles’ lower lip. Was that the recollection of human kissing? Or perhaps a degree of submission? He wasn’t sure, but he took what was offered, forcing himself to be gentle. It felt odd, treating Spike the way he might have treated a virgin lover – odd but rewarding, because Spike, despite his lack of need for oxygen, was beginning to pant, was whining, half words and half basic needy sounds which went straight to Giles’ cock. His hands were clawing into Giles’ back as if he couldn’t get Giles close enough; Giles found himself making reassuring noises. He braced himself on one arm and managed to get a hand to Spike’s cock; Spike cried out harshly and bucked underneath him.

“Slowly,” encouraged Giles. “Slowly. We’ll get there.” It was a ridiculous thing to say, but Spike nodded, eyes shut, and allowed himself to be settled into a slow steady rhythm. After a moment, his hands left Giles’ back and flailed above his head, and he braced himself on the headboard and began to push hard against Giles’ thrusts, back arching, legs locked around Giles’ waist.

It was too good to last; Giles, remembering – with an effort – his promise, scrabbled for the lube bottle and tipped a further dribble awkwardly over Spike’s flat belly, flicking the bottle far enough away that neither one of them would roll on it and fill his bed with spilled slick. Then he lowered his body, trapping Spike’s cock between them in a slippery embrace, and rocked.

Spike groaned. “Oh God, Rupert... ‘S good. ‘S really good.”

It was. The vampire was tight, and the disconcerting feel of somebody at less than body heat was rapidly becoming something Giles thought he could become accustomed to... He heard the hanging preposition, recast the sentence in his head, and laughed at himself for it. Spike, beneath him, was swearing softly, eyes glowing, almost threatening to vamp out and the little prickle of danger tightened Giles’ balls.

He bit, blunt teeth hard at the base of Spike’s neck, and felt the lean body beneath him convulse and throb. His ears rang: Spike, it seemed, shrieked when he came, and his fangs dropped, but it was worth it for the way his arse gripped Giles’ cock. There was no resisting that and Giles let go and allowed pleasure to submerge him.

He was not by any means recovered when Spike shoved, not ungently, at him.

“Gerroff, Rupert, you’re heavy.”

He rolled away, chest heaving, skin beginning to itch with drying sweat and lube and worse, and jumped at a touch on his chest. He opened his eyes – when had he abandoned his glasses, and where the hell were they? – and squinted at Spike’s face. Normal coloured eyes, no fangs. That was good, although it was possibly a bit late to worry about it.

“Definitely better than Peaches.”

He smiled and closed his eyes again. “Glad to hear it.” The fingers on his chest drew patterns, and there was a brief hesitation; then the hand was joined by... He opened his eyes in some surprise. Spike’s head was on his shoulder, Spike’s arm across his chest, Spike’s thigh resting on his. He hesitated himself, and brought his arm up. He was cuddling a vampire. The day could _get_ no stranger.

“Watcher? Rupert?”

“Mmm?”

“Can we do this again?”

“Right this instant? No. Not until I’ve slept. And washed. Later? Yes.”

He didn’t try to stop Spike when he disengaged and rolled away; he listened sleepily to whatever he was doing – gathering his clothes? – but the click of the lighter was unmistakeable. He thought for a moment of saying “You can’t smoke in here!” and somehow couldn’t be bothered; the post-coital cigarette had been the last one he had given up, and the one he most missed, and there was an empty tea cup on the bedside table which could serve as an ashtray. He held out a hand blindly in the smoker’s universal cadging gesture, and Spike snorted with amusement and passed over the cigarette.

“’M I leading you into bad habits, Rupert?”

“I don’t want a whole one. Don’t want to take it up again: smoking isn’t compatible with training a Slayer. I, I spend half my life out of breath as it is.” He passed it back. “What I really want is a cup of tea.”

“Could make you one.”

His eyes shot open. Spike, sitting on the side of the bed, casually naked, smirked at him. “I know how, you pillock. As you keep tellin’ me, I’m _English_. Shag, fag, cuppa. In that order. Could do with one meself.” He rose, and stretched, and reached for Giles’ dressing gown; Giles didn’t stop him. “Sugar?”

“One, please. Not too much milk.”

It was an odd corner of a foreign field to be forever England, he thought, but it had potential.

And however much the Council might disapprove of his situation and think that he was doing it wrong, there was one _big_ consolation. It was official: he was better than Peaches.

 

 

 


End file.
